


Grave Circumstances

by KJGooding



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Cardassian Flirting Banter in the middle of a Dangerous time, Claustrophobia, Episode: s05e14 In Purgatory's Shadow, Episode: s05e15 By Inferno's Light, Gen, Prison, the usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-05 00:57:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15852963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KJGooding/pseuds/KJGooding
Summary: Part of a group exchange, prompt: Garak/Bashir + Claustrophobia.It is difficult to have a private moment under the constant vigilance of cell-mates and one's disapproving father.  But all Garak needs is a minute of peace before he can allow himself to go in to work again; Bashir does not think a single minute is enough.





	Grave Circumstances

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EdosianOrchids901](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdosianOrchids901/gifts).



In the maintenance shaft, Garak mumbled to himself and stared into the flickering bulb until its outline ghosted through closed eyelids and thick lashes, adapted for life in the desert.  In a way, it comforted him, knowing the darkness was not all-encompassing, that the light would burn and struggle and haunt him even when he thought he wanted to be free of it.

“I… can’t imagine I’m doing _well_ by him,” Garak scolded himself, in reference to Tain.  “Sitting in here on purpose, trying to escape, still sniveling and failing…”

For a fleeting moment, it felt as though he was the one in a coffin, while Tain’s body decayed as it had since he was first intermed, with the offensively unhelpful addition of a blanket and of Dr. Bashir standing guard.  There was nothing he could have done, of course, and both of them knew it. All three of them, in fact, if one counted Tain; Garak always did.

It was no use, Garak knew, thinking about it now.  The task at hand was vital to the survival of himself and everyone else in the barrack.  Tain had requested this in almost-clear terms; he had sent the message to Garak with the intention of being saved, in some capacity.

Garak calmed himself enough to fish with one finger into the relay’s core, hooking his nail on a wire and tugging.  He could almost see the color of it, the anchor it was adhered to, when he heard Bashir rapping at the compartment door.  It must have been time for a break.

“This is _useless_ ,” Garak growled, reluctantly accepting Bashir’s arms on either side of him as he was hauled out of the tube.  

Bashir was silent, and kept his hands in place until Garak was deposited on the cot, with a blanket plastered to the sweat gathering beneath his chin.  

“As soon as I make some semblance of progress,” Garak went on, “you insist on stopping me.”

“Yes, I do,” Bashir replied.  “And I will continue to do so.”

“But then I go back in, remembering _nothing_ of my progress, and I don’t think you want us to get out of here at all, with that kind of--”

“Garak, shh,” Bashir said, tapping his own lip.  “You need to speak quietly. Just rest.”

Garak’s breaths came rapidly, until Bashir leaned in and smoothed his hands out in circles over the blanket, calming the prickled scales on Garak’s chest.

“I am doing you all a grave disservice,” Garak concluded.

“We still have time before the guards change.  I’m not going to pressure you into hurting yourself while we _still have time_.”

“I _need_ to be pressured, Doctor.”

“No, you really don’t.”

Sharply, Garak turned his head to face Tain’s body, shielded and wilting in the corner.  Garak was amazed at the reminder he and Tain were not sharing a single blanket, passing it back and forth as necessary.  Then it shocked him, like an unannounced splash of icy water over his face, to know Tain would not be watching him, if they managed to escape.  The pressure would be gone.

From the entryway, the Romulan woman turned and nodded to Worf, who stood beside the maintenance tube.  He cleared his throat.

“ _Doctor_ ,” Worf said, in a quiet, deep tone that forbade further questioning.  

Bashir glanced over his shoulder and noticed the haphazard remnants of his kit were out in the open.  With one foot, he slid them under cover of the cot, and knelt in front of them, at Garak’s side.

“Five more minutes,” Bashir said, acknowledging the signal.  Outside, the guards were advancing, but no trepidation crept into the doctor’s tone.  “Then you can go in again.”

Garak drummed his fingers in agitation, then he shivered and threw off the blanket, believing its weight was more oppressive than it actually was.  It was thin and ragged, like Garak’s breathing. Bashir touched his chest again.

Bashir sighed and looked to each of the other inhabitants in the room, begging for privacy, but there was not much to be done.  The Romulan woman sat at the edge of the door, staring downward. Worf raised his gaze above the bed. Martok went to stand over Tain, glancing back and forth between his body and the motionless Breen.

Garak’s eyes were wide and unfocused, when Bashir’s softly met them.  

“There must be something you can give me,” Garak pleaded, knowing very well there was not.

“ _Cardassians_ ,” Bashir sighed, amiably.  “You’re not physically hurt.  I mean, if I had anything with me, _sure_ , I could get you something for the side-effects: the generalized anxiety, the shortness of breath, the difficulty focusing, even the sweating.  This is a _phobia_ , Garak.  It isn’t rational, and it isn’t anything to be ashamed of.”

“It will be, when all of us die here,” Garak muttered, refusing to be consoled.  “I’m… defective.”

Martok chuckled once, breathily.

“And we’re glad about that,” he said, before turning away again.  “We’re on the same side of this battle.”

“The most dangerous lie I have ever told,” Garak continued, “is that my mind did not lack any discipline. _Look at me_ , Doctor.  Of course they didn’t consider me Cardassian, out there.”

He shrugged with one shoulder to indicate the door, and then the guards and the entire Cardassian Union beyond it.  

“Refusing to acknowledge a problem is no way to fix it,” Bashir said.  “Now… you really should rest, Garak. Try not to get worked up.”

“What did you call it, Doctor?  My pitiful child's affliction?”

“I called it ‘claustrophobia,’ because that’s what it _is_.  You need to be quiet now,” he said, voice remaining surprisingly gentle.

Garak frowned and returned to staring vacantly at the ceiling, imagining the course of their runabout as it hovered somewhere outside.  Its sensors were excellent; he did not need to strengthen their signalling device much at all, so why couldn’t he do it?

He had never known Bashir to be dishonest, so he reluctantly accepted the diagnosis as truth.

“It isn’t treatable?” Garak said, managing a whisper at last.

Bashir gave a contemptuous chuckle.

“What we’re doing now used to be called ‘exposure therapy,’” he said.  “But it isn’t treatable medically, no. It’s psychological.”

“I’d like to go back in, then, rather than sit here thinking about it.”

“I know.  Give it another minute.”

“The newly-arriving guard will need to see me out here.”

“That’s right.”

“One minute?” Garak confirmed.

Bashir looked to Worf, who nodded affirmatively.  

“And I don’t suppose he would bother coming in to remove me, even if I _am_ looking as unwell as I feel,” Garak said, bitterly.

“No,” Bashir said, in a similar tone.  “In fact, in my experience, that’s usually when they come in to remove _me_.”

Garak considered this, and the preceding months Bashir had spent here, trying to help the rest of the inhabitants and inevitably getting himself into trouble.  Luckily, Garak knew him to be a stubborn young man, and he took this as a lesson to himself: do not give up _yet_.  

“I’d rather they didn’t do that, either.  I need treatment.”

“So you keep saying,” Bashir said, fondly.  “We need to get to the station, for that.”

“That,” Garak drawled, “or I’m _sure_ one of the fine gentlemen outside would be willing to put me out of my misery.”

Bashir shook his head and reached forward again, bridging his fingers with Garak’s and lacing them slowly.

“No.  That’s _my_ job,” he said.  “One way or another.”

Garak gave him a skeptical look, but then lowered his head again and focused on his breathing.  Bashir’s hand felt lightweight and warm against his own, and he rippled his fingers enough to feel Bashir’s slide between them.  His grip was loose but intentional, and he kneaded in time with Garak’s deepening breaths.

“Now,” Bashir spoke calmly, as he squeezed Garak’s hand, “the guard’s just checked in, so you can go back anytime you’re ready.  I’ll be right outside, if you need anything.”

What Garak needed, he could not articulate.  It would be dangerously sentimental - never mind impractical - to request Bashir join him inside the compartment.  And describing the attachment he felt to Bashir’s hand was impossible. His grip was perfect - steady, not too tight - and it made Garak realize just how scarce physical affection and reassurance had been in his life, until this point.  But he could not say any of that.

“I appreciate that, Doctor."  
  
  
  
  



End file.
